


It's Too Late for You to Fall Apart

by ChaoticFayth



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Recovery, Secret Identity, Stitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 09:25:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7355302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaoticFayth/pseuds/ChaoticFayth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dragon-slaying adventurer tracks down the trail of a familiar vigilante in Dorado. There's a lot of catching-up to do and plenty of time to do it in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Too Late for You to Fall Apart

**Author's Note:**

> Song Rec: "When You Break" by Bear's Den.

Five years, and it’s sooner than Reinhardt expects to be retracing his steps.

As much as he loves Europe, loves playing the part of grand Crusader and protecting the innocent, there are certain responsibilities that he has to take care of first. Ones that leave his armor locked away in Brigitte’s van as he crosses the ocean. Not for too long, he hopes.

It’s easy to follow the signs when you know what to look for. Not a lot of people could pilfer old Overwatch stockpiles with such precision. A low count on the casualties, in and out with few witnesses and key prizes in-hand. Reinhardt is on the trail long before the news networks start putting things together. There’s only about 5 people in all of Overwatch who could’ve hoped to pull off what had happened: three of them dead, the remaining two following their own agendas in Europe. 

Two of the dead with empty graves. 

And only one of those two was ever that stubborn.

The heat of the Central American sun is a welcome change to cold, wet spring he’s been dealing with in Europe. No need for a heavy coat, just bare arms to a light breeze. If this wasn’t a self-imposed mission, Reinhardt might find himself on a beach sunning away the rest of his worries. The thought’s tempting enough that he has to bodily force himself away from the tourist spots circling the airport he arrives at. Maybe, when this is all over, he’ll catch some rays on the sand.

At least he keeps telling himself he will.

Duffle bag strap slung on a broad shoulder and across his chest and Reinhardt doesn’t look as out of place as he could, really. A big german guy out to enjoy the scenery, nothing weird about that. Dorado has stranger things to worry about.

Like the Los Muertos gang lurking in the shadows.

Dorado’s resident gang gets more obvious the further into the city he travels. Sprays of a sugar-skulled logo that’s gaining notoriety. Young punks covered in body paint that seems to glow in the shadows they pass under. Thankfully, none of them are foolhardy enough to bother a musclebound giant of a european as he wanders down almost familiar streets with a map-in hand. None of them even dare get close enough to so much as see that the spots marked on his map aren’t tourist spots, but instead recent raids from a vigilante presence. Said spots are spread in such a way that it hadn’t taken Reinhardt much thought to figure where this wayward vigilante may be hunkered down.

In the days of the Omnic Crisis, most cities had safehouses scattered in nooks and crannies all through their districts. Some known, some classified, and a bare few that were known only to select individuals. Dorado had one such safehouse, formed during Central American skirmishes by a few of Overwatch’s first strike team. And seeing as of the three that formed it, Amari was definitely lost to them and Reinhardt was making his way to it, there could only be one other occupying it.

It takes him until the first few minutes of sunset until he’s even on that side of Dorado. Stops by in a quaint family shopfront for something to sate the rumbling of his stomach before he’s back to the streets. It takes him a bit to remember where exactly this safehouse is, but he knows he’s getting close when he sees freshly strewn police tape and a few roughed up Los Muertos members being hauled away by a baffled collection of cops. 

Oh, he’s definitely on the right trail.

The old place is tucked away in an apartment above what used to be a bakery. Both are boarded up now. A shame, that. The bakery always had the sweetest confectionaries that he looked forward to each and every time he visited–regardless of whatever state he was in. Reinhardt remembers being coherent enough through a concussion to send Amari down for some all those years ago. A memory he holds dearly to, like many others.

The entrance is tucked away behind a dumpster that hasn’t seen use more than the odd bit of debris in years. Reinhardt begins to wonder if he’s remembered the right place–until he catches the bloody smear of a partial handprint on one of the dumpster’s sides. Fresh, too. There’s a keypad hidden behind a false brick on the alleyway facade that he has to stare at for a moment before he even remembers the combination. He’d told Amari that handprint entry would’ve been easier.

Finally remembering the code, he shoves aside the brick doorway that opens from seemingly nowhere, managing to get his bulk inside before it clicks shut behind him. It’s not fear that tightens in his chest as he stares up the ladder into the near-darkness of the safehouse above him. No, Reinhardt hasn’t felt fear in years. But there is hesitation as a large hand rests on a ladder rung, hesitation that he has to shove aside as he continues on, pulling all of his height up a ladder that he remembers reinforcing for this exact purpose.

He balances elbows on the edge of the safehouse floor once he reaches the top of the ladder. For a few moments, his eyes adjust. Opaque windows let in the last few traces of a red and purple sunset washed across the sky. The place has seen better days, not even he could deny that, but the top of his concerns is the smell of copper that’s assaulted his senses since the door clicked shut behind him. A few drops across the floor lead to a man, hunched over a sink in a far corner. Even in this darkness, the form looks familiar. Toned limbs, hair as silvered as Reinhardt’s own. A bare shoulder and back glisten with a dark crimson that drifts down, toward the waistline of pants that cover an ass and thighs that anyone would struggle to forget.

Even with hair lighter than he remembers, Reinhardt can feel the weight in his chest ease up as he recognizes the figure. Damn those conspiracy theorists for being right, once again. 

“You missed a spot, old man.” 

The figure freezes, but doesn’t reach for the pulse rifle leaned up against the wall to his left. The muscles in his back clench, and even in the near-darkness the tank of a man can see a fresh trickle of dark liquid slide down that bare back. A fresh knife-wound, if Reinhardt has to guess. Either way, his old friend doesn’t say a word.

It’s not a ‘go away’, so he invites himself in. Hauls himself the rest of the way into the safehouse before dropping his duffle by the entrance. On his feet, he can catch a glimpse of the man’s front in the mirror. Reinhardt had seen the dark swath of fabric across the back of the vigilante’s neck, but he hadn’t thought the man still had on the mask he’d seen in blips of security footage. And yet there it was, the soft glow of red visor and the hard grey of the mask. Maybe it’s a trick of the lack of light, but the vigilante almost relaxes once Reinhardt is drawn up to his full height. 

“I saw your handiwork on my way here.” Reinhardt approaches slowly, not unlike one would do with a wounded and feral animal. The closer he gets, the better he can see just how many new scars litter that familiar back. Not to mention the slash of knife wound across the man’s right shoulder. Close enough and he can see that he’s already stitched up a puncture to his left side and fished a bullet from his left arm. He’s been busy since his last encounter with Los Muertos. 

“Then you saw the other guys.” It’s the voice that startles Reinhardt. By now he knows the man in front of him is none other than Jack Morrison, but the voice is almost unfamiliar. Hoarse and deep. Reinhardt had expected to see some consequences of the explosion in Switzerland, but he thought that Jack had made it out quickly, thus the no body found. Hearing a voice like that made him wonder just how much of that hot air had made it down Jack’s throat and into his lungs.

“Only the ones that didn’t end up on stretchers.” Stopped behind Jack, Reinhardt holds a hand out, to the side of him. This is a routine that his vigilante of a friend should remember clearly, back from when this safehouse was more than just a haven for one lone soldier. And remember he does as he sets needle, surgical thread and a relatively clean rag in one large, outstretched palm. Though he may be built for bulk, Reinhardt’s hands are as steady as they get, wiping excess blood from Jack’s wound so that he can actually stitch it up. Despite whatever pain and the tugging against skin, the vigilante he works on doesn’t move an inch. “I do not think anyone will mar your handsome face while we’re in here, friend.”

All the answer Reinhardt gets from him at first is a noncommittal grunt. It’s not until the last stitch is in place that Jack reaches up to unclick his mask and pull off the cowl it attaches to. The adventurer is still wiping blood from Jack’s bare back when he hears the soft clatter of mask and visor as they rest in the sink. He reaches around Jack to set the first aid equipment down, and that’s when he sees what Jack had been hiding. Even in the slight light of the room, he can see burn scars covering chin and face, barely ghosting across his nose. New slashes over brow line. And barely, just barely, Reinhardt can tell that something about Jack’s eyes just isn’t quite right. That he’s not focused on the mirror or either reflection in it, that he’s simply gazing off. 

It’s rare that Reinhardt is rendered truly speechless. 

A strong hand cups the side of Jack’s neck, steadying him so that Reinhardt can lean in and inspect that reflection just a bit better. It takes Jack a minute, but he does finally focus his gaze back at Reinhardt’s face and damned if the big guy doesn’t see the corner of Jack’s lips twitch into the barest of smiles. There, that’s the hint of his old friend that he was looking for. But he can’t deny that Jack’s been through a hell of a time. 

“That’s better.” Another twitch of a smile from Jack and he shuffles things around in the sink enough to rinse out the now bloody rag. It takes a bit of time, more than one rinse in the cold water. Before Jack can even try to finish wiping the blood from his person, Reinhardt takes the cloth from him to finish cleaning his friend’s back. Too bad this place didn’t have a shower in it, that would finish things up right quick. “I gave your eulogy, you know.”

“I heard.” Jack’s running his hands under the water now, trying to get the blood from his arms. Though he can tell there’s not much in the way of concentration to his movements. Either way, strong german hands are doing a much better job out across a bare back.

“It was a good one. Not a dry eye at the funeral.” Satisfied with the job he’s done, Reinhardt drops the cloth back onto the sink. Rather than simply walk away or tap on Jack’s shoulder to get his attention, Reinhardt maneuvers him with steady hands, turning the soldier around to face him. More so that he can get a good look at any injuries he might have than anything else. Jack’s done a good job of stitching himself up, at least. The puncture wound worries him the most, but Jack moves as though he’s not in too much pain from it.

“You always were a big sap,” Jack says, but it comes out as more of a grumble than anything. Those barely focused eyes are glancing across the ridiculously large European in front of him, as though he’s trying to convince himself that that barrel chest and those broad shoulders are actually there, in front of him. Though Jack may have changed by leaps and bounds, Reinhardt is almost exactly the same. Beard’s a bit longer, hair too, maybe a couple of new scars, but just looking at him makes Jack feel like no time has passed at all. Reinhardt isn’t drilling him with any questions that he would have expected from any of his old friends, just standing there and offering support. Trying to lighten the mood.

Just as much of a heart of gold as he’s ever had.

“Would you expect anything else?”

Slowly, Jack shakes his head. Not much of a movement, barely anything at all and Reinhardt opens his mouth to say something else when he notices the soldier lean forward, press his face against a broad chest and just stand there. If it was a hug, that would be one thing. But this is an old soldier letting his walls down in the presence of the one friend who has never asked too much from him, if anything at all. A soft smile spreads over Reinhardt’s features as he wraps those strong arms around Jack, pulling him close into a real hug. Though Jack doesn’t resist, he doesn’t exactly hug Reinhardt back–at least, not at first. It takes him a moment, but he does bring his hands up, wraps them around a solid waist and clings as though he’s afraid for all of this to stop as suddenly as Reinhardt appeared in this safehouse.

Reinhardt curls down around the smaller man, pressing his face against hair not dissimilar in color to his own. This close, he can feel just how unsteady Jack is. The small quake in his muscles, how those hands tense and hold onto the back of the adventurer’s shirt. Even the soldier’s breathing is unsteady, almost a shudder as he presses his face harder against his friend’s broad chest. 

“Take all the time you need, meine liebchen.” Reinhardt is always one of the first to utter terms of endearment to those closest to him, and the soldier in his arms has never been an exception to that. Though Jack may be the beacon of light for an entire generation–a weight too heavy for anyone, honestly–he has been a dear friend to an armored crusader for over two decades. Reinhardt would move mountains for his friends, for Jack he’d pull the very sun from the sky.

Though he isn’t counting, it takes several minutes for Jack to collect himself enough to pull away from that solid and warm chest. He braces his hands on Reinhardt’s sides as he pushes back just enough so that he can look up at the face attached to his large friend. They’re close enough that he doesn’t have to work to focus his eyes on familiar features, but Reinhard still lifts a hand to cup Jack’s jaw. He doesn’t say anything, but he searches those features just the same.

“’M not totally blind, if that’s what you’re wondering.” Jack speaks up, softly to answer a question that hadn’t been asked aloud. The words are just a hint of bitter and Reinhardt watches those scarred brows knit together in frustration. All things considered, he wouldn’t be surprised if the man was completely blind. It’s a miracle he’s even alive, let alone walking, talking and seeing. 

“Took long enough for age to catch up with you, did it?” Reinhardt knows why Jack’s sight has done to the wayside, but he says what he does purely for effect. That being the frustrated grunt he gets from Jack and the pinch to his side. At least the man can still be teased. Though, it’s not Jack’s sight that had caught Reinhardt’s attention, but rather the scars. The crusader rubs his thumb slowly along Jack’s jawline, feeling along the too-smooth skin of scarred chin. Earlier he’d noticed matching defensive burns across the soldier’s forearms, some faint ones across his chest. Jack may have gotten out of the whole ordeal intact, but only barely. 

Warm breath grazes over the top of the larger man’s hand as he moves it along those burn scars. Amazingly, Jack lets him feel along. Reinhardt’s touch is gentle but thorough, feeling up to trace the pad of his thumb along lips that are somewhat misshapen from what he remembers. Even so, the man is still far more handsome than he has any right to be. Lips slightly parted and Reinhardt is distracted as he runs the tip of his thumb along them–distracted enough that he doesn’t even notice when Jack’s hand moves from his side to the front of his shirt. The hand grabs hold of his shirt and he has enough time to move his hand out of the way before he’s pulled down to touch those lips with his own instead. 

It’s not the first time he’s kissed Jack, but the last few times had been in celebration more than anything else. This was more relief, but also something else. Something he can’t quite place. By the time Jack lets him go, Reinhardt has cupped the back of the man’s head in one strong hand.

“You were takin’ too long,” Jack mutters gruffly just inches from the taller man’s face. Whether that means he just wanted to kiss and get it over with or something else, Reinhardt doesn’t know. What he does know is that Jack tastes like copper and smells of a bitter smoke, not unlike the bitter tang of pulse emissions. It’s a sensation put together that’s neatly Jack Morrison and it makes Reinhardt’s chest ache with the memory of better years.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got a place to stay while you’re here, yet?” It’s a simple question, but truth be told, Reinhardt had forgotten to even make arrangements. He was a bit too used to sleeping in a mobile workshop that it’d completely slipped his mind to get a hotel. At least one of them was looking out for him.

“If you are offering to share your space, I would not mind.” Reinhardt’s reply is met with a nod, brief and followed by a grunt that sounds like it must have been a ‘good’ or something along those lines. Lack of reservations aside, the big guy would be far more comfortable on a musty old mattress with his friend than he would be in a hotel room on the other side of Dorado. 

And something tells him, as Jack presses his forehead to Reinhardt’s own, that an old soldier feels the same.


End file.
